


Spring Flowers, Autumn Leaves

by NightValeian



Series: MythVerse [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Hades, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Persephone, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Kissing, Language of Flowers, M/M, Reuniting, Sharing a Bed, Waiting, minor mentions of other characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29969484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightValeian/pseuds/NightValeian
Summary: Aziraphale, Lord of the Underworld, was used to waiting for Crowley to come home.However, he wasn't used to Crowley being late.--A Hades/Persephone AU
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: MythVerse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204292
Comments: 24
Kudos: 87





	Spring Flowers, Autumn Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing this thing where I go back through my WIP folder and finish the things that have been collecting dust for two years. 
> 
> I'd like to give a BIG thank you to the individuals who beta-read this for me: [animeangelriku ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/animeangelriku/pseuds/animeangelriku) and [teslatherat ](https://teslatherat.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Aziraphale had read the same section of the scroll in front of him at least three times, leg bouncing anxiously under the table while every now and then glancing at the clock on the wall. 

_ Three minutes.  _

He just had to wait three more minutes. 

Aziraphale was the Lord of the Underworld and had been for as long as there had been a concept of time in the mortal realm. While it hadn’t been the most ideal placement for him in his opinion, content to live in his corner of Olympus observing the mortals, his elder siblings Gabriel and Michael had told him that it was his duty, leaving him no room for argument. Aziraphale had done what he was told to do, moving from his cozy existence in the sky to a pit in the ground, and over time constructed the system of the Underworld, the place mortals went when they left the living world behind.

At first, there wasn’t much of a system to be had; souls of the departed would stand in an agonizingly long line after emerging from the River of Styx while Aziraphale would painstakingly write out each name along with their cause of death onto parchment before escorting them to their assigned area of placement. Mortals died so easily and so frequently that it took very little time at all for Aziraphale to realize how in over his head he was, even with godlike abilities to aid him. He needed help and when his siblings on Olympus offered him none, he was reduced to figuring it all out on his own. 

Eventually, Aziraphale decided that if his family would not help him with the burden they’d assigned to him, then he would simply find individuals who would, and he had a wide range of choices from the souls of the departed who came to him from above. Some souls were not ready to rest on their designated eternal plane, insistent that they were still capable of so much more in death as they were in life, and if they were able to convince Aziraphale that they were sincere about their statements, he would grant them an opportunity of employment under his watchful eye.

The underlings ended up taking on everything Aziraphale had done at the beginning. Adam, the first underling, was in charge of collecting souls from the mortal realm and ferrying them down the River of Styx to the Underworld. Erik, the second, took names and causes of death upon a soul’s arrival before filing the paperwork in the appropriate area. The following three, Anathema, Newton, and Tracy, organized different souls into groups based on the lives they’d lived which was broken down ultimately by whether or not a soul had been a good or bad person in life. The last, Shadwell, was in charge of escorting those created groups to their designated plane of rest: Tartarus, Asphodel, or the fields of Elysium. 

It was a system that had once required a lot of supervision. Aziraphale would watch over the underlings as they went through their tasks, offering advice or making adjustments where they were needed, and the six of them would adjust until the Underworld’s process was so without flaw that Aziraphale barely needed to supervise anymore. The pride Aziraphale had felt at this accomplishment was short lived, however, as he was quickly met with the idea that aside from the occasional supervision, he was simply not needed like he used to be. 

So Aziraphale was reduced to waiting. 

He was used to waiting, of course, but it never got easier, especially when he was so close to not having to wait anymore. Six months always seemed like such a long time to wait, but it was the countdown of the remaining days that seemed to take the longest in comparison. Part of this issue was due to the fact he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the clock despite the lengths he went to in attempting to distract himself with tedious tasks that didn’t need his attention at all. The Underworld functioned like a well-oiled machine under his supervision, as it always had, but even this machine didn’t need him hovering.

_ "Sir, please, we have it handled." _

_ "You can relax, sir. Everything is under control." _

After the underlings had reassured him that his help wasn’t needed for the hundredth time, Aziraphale decided to spend the remainder of his time waiting at home, pouring over his readings and waiting for hellishly long days to pass. His collection of readings was massive, ranging from scrolls from the earliest eras of time to the books that had recently begun making their appearances throughout the mortal realm, but even his collection couldn’t always distract him from the concept of time.

_ Two minutes.  _

This was the worst kind of torture and Aziraphale had  _ designed _ the tortures of the Underworld. If only he didn't have obligations down below, if only he could come and go at will like he used to. 

How did months fly by so quickly, but minutes ticked by forever? 

_ One minute more.  _

Aziraphale rolled up the scroll and stacked it with the others in the pile, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. His heart was pounding in his chest so loudly that he could practically hear each beat echo through the room in time with each tick of the clock. 

_ Thirty seconds.  _

Aziraphale counted down the seconds in his head, watching the seconds _tick tick_ _tick_ at an agonizing pace. He slowly rose from his chair, taking a step closer to the door, but kept his eyes on the clock. His hands, which had been clasped together calmly in front of him began to wring together with anxiety. 

_ Time.  _

He listened closely for any new sounds, looked around the room for any sudden changes.

_ Tick tick tick… _

Nothing. 

Perhaps the clock was fast? No, the clock ran on magic; it couldn't possibly be wrong. 

_ Late.  _

How could they be late? Thirty seconds late? 

_ Tick tick tick… _

A whole  _ minute _ late?

Aziraphale swallowed a rapidly forming lump in his throat, eyes burning. It was just a minute, one minute, a minute was  _ nothing _ ; everything was fine, everything was just tickety-boo, just running late. 

_ Two minutes late.  _

His shoulders sagged in defeat, any excitement he'd felt became doused in disappointment and left an ugly, sour taste in his mouth. Perhaps he’d just been spoiled by the countless times everything had happened right when it was supposed to, after all, it was only two minutes. He could handle two minutes.

_ Three minutes late. _

It was official: they weren’t coming.

Aziraphale felt his heart drop as his gaze finally drifted from the clock, shuffling his way back to his desk. He sank heavily down into his chair, his bottom lip trembling, and trying not to let himself feel so terrible. He picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of his coat and tried to be positive, but what else could he feel? 

They'd never been three minutes late before, never been  _ late _ before, and with every second that continued to pass the more Aziraphale began to wonder if he’d been forgotten. If the arrangement had been somehow broken without his knowledge and he would once again play out his existence like he had before: alone. 

He could see the headlines now: King of Underworld Defeated By Time. 

Aziraphale stared at the scrolls he had stacked upon his desk, debating whether or not to pick up where he’d left off with his reading. Usually reading the written creations of the mortals brought him peace, but the sour taste in his mouth had traveled down to his stomach, twisting his insides about and shutting down any desire to do anything he would normally enjoy. 

He considered calling it a day and spending the remainder of it alone in bed. However, before that idea could fully take hold in his head, Aziraphale sensed a shift in the atmosphere, an influx of power that usually occurred upon the arrival of someone with a great amount of it, and his heart lurched in his chest, renewed with the feeling of hope.

"Aziraphale?" 

Aziraphale was the King of the Underworld; he  _ certainly _ did  _ not  _ leap up from his desk and dash to his office door. He also certainly did  _ not _ make his way with quick steps down the hall to the entryway like a man possessed. He  _ did _ , however, stop in the doorway to admire a man with hair like fire, dressed all in black, and with nearly a dozen bright flowers tucked in amongst his curls. 

"You're late," It wasn't what he wanted to say; he wanted to say a hundred other things, six  _ months  _ worth of other things, but all that came out was: "Very late."

The man raised an eyebrow in amusement, glancing at a nearby clock and smiled at Aziraphale affectionately. "Four whole minutes. Shame on me."

Aziraphale felt absolutely ridiculous, his eyes burning with the sting of emotion. Every moment he spent being upset was another moment wasted, but how could he possibly make jokes when they’d already lost  _ four whole minutes  _ and counting? “Four whole minutes,” he repeated quietly and the other man’s eyes softened, the teasing smile slipping off of his face completely. 

“Oh, petal,” he sighed. “I’m home now. I’m all yours.” 

The man opened his arms and Aziraphale was quick to cross the small distance, throwing his arms around the man’s neck before burying his face against the exposed skin there. Aziraphale breathed in the scent of freshly cut flowers and the smell of summer heat, the sting behind his eyes finally slipping down his cheeks freely. He pressed cool lips to the warm exposed skin of the other's neck and relished the feel of sun-kissed arms winding around his middle to hold him just a bit closer. 

" _ Crowley." _

Crowley was the God of Spring and lived topside amongst the mortals bringing spring flowers as well as warm weather. Due to a mishap with six pomegranate seeds and the creation of an arrangement, instead of returning to Olympus to wait out the winter months, Crowley would pack his things and head down to the Underworld to spend that time with Aziraphale.

"I'm sorry I was late…” Crowley murmured against his hair, still holding him close. “There was a miscommunication upstairs. Summer went on a bit too long."

"It's alright,” It wasn’t alright, not really, but Crowley was home and in the end, that was all that really mattered. “Really. I'm just glad you're here."

"My soft-hearted king...Did you truly miss me so?" Crowley cooed, withdrawing from their embrace so that they could look at one another. Gentle hands cupped his face and soft thumbs wiped away the tears that had trailed down Aziraphale’s face. “No need for tears. As if I could stay away.” 

Aziraphale laughed wobbly, his own hands coming up to cover the ones on his face. Crowley, as always, was the most radiant thing in the household, glowing with the ethereal light of the Gods, and like a moth to a flame, Aziraphale couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. "You have  _ no _ idea how much I miss you when you’re away." 

"I'm sure I have  _ some _ idea," Crowley told him with a fond smile and  _ oh, _ that smile. Seeing that smile always made everything better. “I miss you terribly when we’re apart, every flower seems to remind me of you.”

“That’s because when you go to the surface you make new flowers and I’m sure you’re thinking of me when you make them.” Aziraphale murmured teasingly and Crowley hummed in agreement, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead before withdrawing completely, the warmth left behind by his hands lingering on Aziraphale’s cheeks. 

“Speaking of which, I’ve brought you something,” Crowley announced and plucked a flower from behind his ear, presenting it to Aziraphale with a flourish. The flower had short, pink, rounded petals, arranged in layers, and the floral scent that reached his nose was subtle and sweet. Once he’d gotten a good look at the flower, Crowley tucked the stem behind Aziraphale’s ear instead, and smiled, satisfied. “It suits you as I thought it would.”

“It’s beautiful,” Aziraphale told him, reaching up to touch the soft, round petals, and wondered what it was that Crowley saw that made him look at him with such a softness in his eyes. “What does this one mean?” 

"Longing," Crowley replied with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of that word, a weight Aziraphale understood all too well. "It's called a camellia flower."

"A camellia flower," Aziraphale repeated thoughtfully. With the creation of flowers came a creation of a new language, one used by mortal and immortal alike. Each flower upon creation was given a name and a meaning which mortals used to communicate secret messages to loved ones as well as others. Crowley was no exception. "Thank you, my darling.”

“Of course. Anything for you,” Crowley replied and Aziraphale saw the flicker of exhaustion behind his eyes. Traveling between realms was an exhausting ordeal, but going from a full living world to a dead one would be especially exhausting for anyone, especially for the God of Spring. 

"You must be tired from your trip," Aziraphale suggested, motioning down the hall to the bedroom they shared when Crowley was home. He took one of Crowley’s hands in his own, intent on walking them both to their room. “The bed is ready for you-" 

"All in good time,” Crowley soothed, lifting Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over the back. “This place has become so  _ gloomy _ , let me brighten it up a bit."

"I'd love nothing more, darling, if you’re not too tired," Crowley tugged his hand and led him throughout the house, filling the many empty vases with a different assortment of flowers with a snap of his fingers. Whenever Crowley returned from the surface, his first priority was to fill their little corner of the Underworld with the beautiful flora of the mortal realm. Unfortunately, upon his departure, the flowers would wilt and die off despite Aziraphale’s best efforts to keep them alive. "I’ve tried my best to keep them from wilting, but…”

“I know you tried, petal,” Aziraphale flushed with shame and Crowley squeezed his hand in reassurance. “Luckily, I’m here now. Don’t you worry, maybe this will be the visit where you conquer proper flower care.”

“Some may say I’m a lost cause,” Aziraphale told him with a small, helpless shrug. “Things aren’t meant to live down here, unfortunately.” 

While Gods and Goddesses were more of an existence than actual living beings, any actual living thing that entered the Underworld had very little chance of escaping alive. When Crowley was present in the Underworld, the aura that surrounded him as the God of Spring was strong enough to keep things such as plants or flowers in full bloom. As Lord of the Underworld, Aziraphale’s aura usually did the opposite which not only dampened the atmosphere, but also severely affected his mood.

The presence of the newly summoned flowers always brought Aziraphale joy, eager to see all of the ones he already knew, but even more eager to see the new flowers Crowley had created in his time away. It brought him memories of the time he spent in the mortal realm himself, long before he’d been cast down to the Underworld, and if not for the darkness outside of the windows, Aziraphale could almost pretend he was still up there.

"Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, already taking note of which flowers were new and which ones he had seen before. “That's so much better."

"You deserve this year round,” Crowley pointed out, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You're too bright to be stuck down here in this pit."

Aziraphale sighed heavily; this was an age old argument that happened at least a dozen times during each visit and it appeared they were wasting no time in launching into it this time. Crowley had always been disapproving of how Aziraphale had ended up with his responsibilities in the Underworld and even more furious with the realization that he could never truly leave those responsibilities behind.

"Crowley…"

"You should be up top with me,” Crowley continued on. “You should be allowed to leave and see the surface, see the mortals, see  _ me, _ know happiness.”

"I  _ do _ know happiness--”

"Happiness isn’t being stuck down here by yourself for six months of the mortal calendar!” 

“Darling,” Aziraphale interjected gently, squeezing his hand. The argument never ended well because there was no resolution to it. Aziraphale’s place was in the Underworld and Crowley was needed in the mortal realm; that’s how it had to be. “You’ve only just come home. Do we have to do this now?”

Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but something on Aziraphale's face made him pause and he snapped his jaw closed, considering his next words for a long time. “You’re right, you’re right,” he sighed. “I apologize. It just isn’t easy, leaving you in the spring.”

"It's alright,” Aziraphale replied. “I  _ know  _ how hard it is on you, all this back and forth--”

"It's not about  _ me _ ," Crowley said sharply, anger reawakened, eyes flashing with godlike power. "It's about  _ you _ ." 

They stared at one another for a long time until Aziraphale lifted his arms and wrapped them around Crowley’s neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. Crowley’s shoulders were tense for some time, determined to hold onto his anger, but the longer Aziraphale held him, the more the tension began to seep out of his bones. No words were exchanged until Crowley’s arms came to wrap around his waist, his face buried against his shoulder. 

“You’ve always been so kind to me, my love,” Aziraphale murmured, lips brushing the side of his head tenderly. “So concerned for me and my wellbeing. I am lucky that I’ve even had the chance to know you, let alone know your love.” 

"Aziraphale--"

"Hush now," Aziraphale soothed, his free hand moving up to rest on the back of Crowley's neck, keeping him as close as possible. "As long as I am with you, I am at peace. I have everything I need and I don’t want you to think otherwise."

"And when I'm not here?" Crowley asked quietly, his voice pained. "Are you at peace then?" 

They both knew the answer and it hung between them heavily in the silence. Aziraphale was miserable when Crowley had to leave for the surface, burying himself in his work to avoid the unbearable feeling of loneliness until he'd burn himself down to bare tips of exhaustion, and they both knew it. 

"You're exhausted," Aziraphale replied instead, unwrapping his arms from around them and taking a step back. He held out his hand instead which Crowley took, lacing their fingers together. "No more of this. Come, to bed with you."

Their bedroom hadn’t changed since Crowley’s last visit, though the vases that had stood empty on the nightstand now bloomed with life upon Crowley’s entry to the room. “Everything is how you left it,” Aziraphale told him. He rarely slept himself, having never truly found the need for it, so the bed was mostly built around Crowley’s desires for comfort. “I took the liberty of adding a few more pillows though, since you seemed to enjoy them.”

“It’s perfect,” Crowley told him, releasing his hand almost reluctantly and made his way to the side of the bed he usually occupied. He climbed under the soft blankets and began arranging the pillows, almost methodically. "Will you lay with me?”

"Always, darling,” Aziraphale replied readily, making his way to the side of the bed he claimed when Crowley was home. He waited until the pillows were sorted appropriately before climbing under the covers as well. Crowley shifted closer towards him, laying an arm loosely around his waist with his head coming to rest on his chest despite the numerous pillows available. Aziraphale gently carded a hand through his hair, miraculously not knocking any flowers loose, before he pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I'll even read to you if you like."

"Can we finish the one we'd started when I left?" Crowley asked and Aziraphale nodded, reaching over to the side table to pick up the book resting there. It was covered in a thin layer of dust, having been untouched since Crowley’s departure, but he blew it away with ease and opened the cover to where the marked page lay. “I always wondered how it ended.” 

“Well, let’s find out together, shall we?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments give me life c: 
> 
> I'm thinking of turning this into a little series of snapshots through their relationship. Thoughts?


End file.
